


Moriarty/Moran ficlet and drabble collection 1

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets/drabbles written using single word prompts, mostly given by a random word generator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moriarty/Moran ficlet and drabble collection 1

**Stripping:**  Moriarty likes stripping Moran completely bare sometimes whilst he himself remains clothed. On some level he does admire his gunman’s body; its aesthetic appeal; how lean and toned he is, but mostly he simply enjoys tipping the balance of power by rendering Moran vulnerable. Furthermore, he revels in the knowledge that Moran would have things no other way.  
  
 **-**  
  
 **Wartime:** Moran still dreams of wartime; nightmares of blood-soaked battlefields, soundtracked with gunfire and screaming from which he awakens drenched in sweat. Moriarty has never asked what Moran dreams of; has never said a word on the matter even on the occasions when he has taken Moran’s hand and held it, grounding the colonel back in the present, but he knows anyway.  
  
-  
  
 **Herd:**  Men, as a rule, thinks Moran, are essentially herd animals; cattle. They aren’t terribly clever; they need a leader - a king; a prime minister; whoever else may fill that role - to do the thinking for them. Sometimes Moran himself has been the one doing the thinking; now he finds himself deferring to Moriarty instead, so is he not now simply part of the herd himself?  
  
No, Moran is the consort of a king.  
  
-  
  
 **Room:** They each have a bedroom, their individual portions of territory clearly demarcated. Of late though Moran’s room has seen less and less usage, as Moriarty ever more frequently invites Moran into his bedroom at night.  
  
Then one day, Moran, unthinking, says of a book that Moriarty wishes to read a few chapters of before sleeping, “I’ll put it in our room for you.” Frowning slightly when he realises what he has just said.  
  
Moriarty, smiling faintly to himself, chooses not to correct him.  
  
-  
  
 **Whelks:**  “No,” says Moran.  
  
“You could at least try them.” Moriarty holds the plate of cooked whelks out to his right hand man.  
  
“No,” Moran repeats, picking up his glass of beer. “I am not putting those disgusting things in my mouth ever again.”  
  
Moriarty raises both eyebrows at him. “And here I was thinking that you were not particularly fussy about what you put into your mouth,” he says, and gives Moran a sly wink.  
  
Moran chokes on his drink.  
  
-  
  
 **Mathematician/Lunatic:**  The mathematician and the lunatic; the one who calculates and machinates, plotting the downfall of men; of companies; of empires, and the one who acts out those calculations, giving orders to those lesser mortals below him and killing on command. Moriarty with his head full of formulae and Moran who was likely already half mad even before he saw the war. Yet they intertwine and mesh and merge together, taking on each others’ traits, for surely a man capable of Moriarty’s acts is a lunatic too, while Moran masters mathematics in his own way, when he judges angles and distance and factors in the wind speed to achieve the prime position and trajectory for a clean kill. Thus they fit together perfectly, these two most dangerous of men.  
  
-  
  
 **Tongue:**  Moriarty does not often watch Moran shoot, but sometimes he likes to observe. He admires how the colonel works; how efficient he is; how focused. He also notices that sometimes, when Moran is concentrating especially hard, he sticks his tongue out part way between his lips. Moriarty finds this rather endearing somehow, yet he knows better than to comment on it. If he does he knows that Moran will make an effort never to do it again.  
  
-  
  
 **Infant:** Moran looks up at him, hate and hurt blended in his blue eyes. “Why didn’t you let me help you?” he asks, and his voice tremors. His fingers clench around empty air.  
  
Moriarty stares out of the window and sighs. “I could not have you seeing me that way,” he says at last. “Broken. In agony. Soiling the bed like an infant.”  
  
“I would have helped you!” Moran cries.  
  
“I didn’t  _want_  your help!” Moriarty snarls, snapping his gaze back to meet Moran’s. “I didn’t want you to see me that way!”  
  
Moran finally drags his gaze off Moriarty’s. He looks down at his feet and laughs bitterly. “So you preferred to let me think that you were dead these three years instead.”


End file.
